


A Taste of Rome

by Sarita1046



Category: Norsemen - Fandom, Vikingane
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Coitus Interruptus, Cross-cultural, F/M, Finger Sucking, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Slavery, Threats of Violence, Vaginal Sex, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 13:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16744984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarita1046/pseuds/Sarita1046
Summary: Roman slave Rufus finds himself in yet another compromising situation.





	A Taste of Rome

It was a miracle, really – how long he had managed to survive death or even brutal injury. 

Ever since being captured from his native Rome, Rufus had longed to return to his theatre craft. He’d even used his “magic” talents to mesmerize these Nordic barbarians into letting him live upon running away.

Well, gazing out from behind the slave tent tonight, he thought surely it couldn’t be too awful. Just another raid, perpetrated by…Jarl Varg? Perhaps, though from what he could see from this angle, none of these warriors appeared familiar. Must be another faction of warmongering brutes – God knew they all blended together.

Glancing around without leaving the safety of the shadows, Rufus searched frantically for any signs of life back here in the brush with him. He was met with nothing but a staggering woman with a dagger in her throat. As she caught his eye, she went to choke out words – cut off by the arrow that impaled her skull swift as an eagle. 

Setting his jaw, Rufus looked to the right from whence the arrow had flown. Sure enough, not two meters away, stood an armored warrior. So armored in fact that he only hoped the man’s mask obstructed one’s peripheral vision enough to enable the Roman to sidle backwards in a stealthy crouch and escape into the forest.

No such luck. With a quick head swivel, the barbarian glanced straight in the Roman slave’s direction. Rufus barely managed to sigh, as the man strode up to him. 

“Stand.” Commanded a voice obscured by a metal helmet.

Rising shakily, Rufus kept his gaze averted. He somehow managed to keep himself from shrinking away at the sight of the warrior’s holstered sword, as the other man roughly clutched his shoulder. 

“Walk.” Came the order. Idly, the Roman realized the soldier strangely wasn't very tall - perhaps Orm's height.

Rufus kept his head down, avoiding looking at the corpses strewn about as much as he could without tripping over them. After shuffling about 100 meters past other armored warriors in various tents, the man stopped before the entrance to what Rufus guessed was his tent.

“In.” The barbarian shoved Rufus into the tent barely seconds after the latter had time to kneel. Thank God – or Jupiter or whichever deity – he had managed to crawl inside the front flap without an embarrassing, accidental somersault. 

Once inside, the Roman scooted to the furthest corner of the tent floor. A tent which he now realized was quite sizable, perhaps about five meters in width. Before what appeared to be a mound of animal skins, snuffed out candles sat arranged in a ring. Quickly back on his guard, Rufus surveyed the Viking now entering behind him, dark eyes roaming over the armor that shone gently in the moonlight from the night sky outside.

And then there were two in the tent, the other man discarding his crossbow and shield in the front right corner. 

Rufus stayed silent, never letting his gaze drop from the warrior who had, upon removing his gloves, proceeded to draw two small sticks from beside the animal skins and rub them together. Within moments, he was lighting the ring of candles.

Only then did Rufus realize how much his fingers ached with the cold.

After lighting the final candle, the Viking rubbed his hands together, still not looking at or addressing the slave in the corner.

Still, Rufus had little hope of escaping from this side of the tent, even if he somehow did succeed in surviving past the soldier falling asleep. 

As if on cue, the other’s head glanced again in the Roman’s direction and, finally, the warrior removed his helmet.

The first feature Rufus noted in the light of the dull flame was the white blond hair. Silvery tresses interwoven with braids. The next were the sharp blue eyes. In all, the resemblance to the chieftain Orm’s wife, Frøya, was uncanny…well, perhaps it couldn't hurt to stall with pleasantries.

“What’s your name?” He chanced.

Eyes roaming over him once, the warrior replied shortly. "Ranveig. Yours?"

And then it hit him. The Viking before him resembled Frøya because this warrior, too, was a woman.

Well. Rufus figured he'd already been pissed on, submerged in tar and feather, and buried up to his neck in the earth since his capture. How much more humiliating could it get?

“I asked your name,” came the brusque statement, no longer a question.

“Rufus.” He decided against rambling off his full name. 

The woman frowned. “Strange name. And your hair, it’s so messy. How does it grow like this?”

_Maybe because I’ve been a victim of your barbaric pillaging._

“The curls, you mean.”

“They are odd,” the woman stated curtly, “And your accent…”

“I am from Rome,” Rufus informed her. “Dark curls, warmer climate…usually less violence, except in the gladiator arenas…”

“Rome,” the female warrior spat, moving closer to him in a way that appeared far too nimble for such close quarters, “Your empire sought to rid this whole world of our true gods.”

Rufus paused, never breaking gaze with those glimmering, icy eyes. “Not me, I'm no crusader. I was captured by your kind as a slave.”

Humiliating, yet true. She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing, staring him down. 

Then, "It doesn't matter,” she continued, slipping off her metal chest armor and eventually the vest underneath. “Enough talk.”

Well. Rufus decided, if she was going to disrobe in front of him, there were worse ways to spend an evening. Honestly, she didn’t seem intent on murdering him just yet, and naked people were at least something he could handle. 

Yet, the intent behind her capturing him was still a mystery. He dearly hoped she didn’t plan on making him a bloody demonstration of female Viking prowess. 

“Take off your clothes, slave.” Ranveig’s harsh tone pulled him out of his thoughts, as he registered what his eyes were taking in.

There she sat, legs out to the side. Stark naked. Well, apart from the handle of her sword that still lay askew across her right knee, the pointed blade aimed in his direction. A warning, he supposed.

For better or worse, shedding the grimy slave apparel didn’t take long. Though the candles did little to heat the tent, and gooseflesh sprung up on his arms and legs in no time. All he allowed himself to note were the tattooed runes on her shoulders flickering in the candlelight. She was the epitome of fierce, no doubt about it - and despite his fondness for the malleable Roman women, this display of victorious shield maiden was doing things to him he didn't dare acknowledge head-on.

Clothes soon in a heap beside him, Rufus chanced another glance at Ranveig who sat surveying what appeared to be his chest, before her sharp eyes flitted to his face once more. 

Then, without a word, she sidled over to him until they sat a mere half-meter apart. As best he could, he avoided looking at her modestly sized breasts or the light brown hair between her toned thighs, which her legs thankfully obscured anyway. Yes, best to focus on her face.

“Several years of raids,” her eyes never left his, “And we finally snag a foreigner from further south than England.”

Odd how, despite her words, Ranveig made no move to get closer.

For some reason, Rufus had the clever idea of monopolizing upon what appeared to be exoticization. 

“Rome represents the cultural center of the world,” he forced a light tone, “We have many languages, flavors of food…”

The next moment was a blur. Before Rufus could take another breath, he was flat on his back with a weight on his chest. Shutting up instantly, he looked to see the Viking warrior sitting half astride his abdomen, dagger in hand. 

All right, he’d seen the sword in plain sight – where in the world had the dagger come from?

Holding the blade closer to his ear than his actual throat, Ranveig spoke in a surprisingly soft voice. “One would expect an empire that steals land and colonizes speakers of other languages to come out with a rich culture.”

After a second that seemed like an hour, Rufus let out an audible exhale as she set the blade aside. However, she remained atop his torso. Not that he minded. In fact, now that he was out of immediate danger, his body decided to choose that moment to realize that he had a naked woman sitting on top of him.

 _Why now?_ Rufus’s rational mind whined, as the lower half of him sprung to life. He could only hope she wouldn’t turn around for any reason just yet.

And she didn’t. Turn around, that is. Instead, gaze never leaving his, she reached back behind with her left hand and grasped his length.

Rufus closed his eyes then, not moving or making a sound. 

“Has it been a while, then?” she asked, voice softer than he’d yet heard it. 

Rufus didn’t reply to the taunt, both not to provoke her anger and, embarrassingly, in hopes that she wouldn’t release her grip on him. Suddenly, the frozen air and carnage outside seemed leagues away.

His growing lightheadedness surged as her right hand grabbed his hand and guided it between her legs. She lifted her hips just enough to grant him access to her slick depths. Narrow, smooth and just the right fit. Fortunately, this he had some practice at with both men and women. Playing along dutifully, the actor curled two fingers at an upward angle and thrust them gently in and out.

Then, all at once, her mouth was on his throat. Lightly sucking in a gentle fashion that he never would have expected from such a fierce warrior. 

As soon as he realized he’d begun thrusting into her hand, he wanted to slap himself. Not only was this a humiliating situation, he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of his arousal nor any reason to suddenly kill him for perversion. 

_Focus on something else._  


“You know, not all Romans pillage,” Rufus sputtered, inwardly scoffing at how he was excusing his own people’s pillaging tendencies to a barbarian that was currently riding his hand, "For instance, I was an actor in the theatre. I’ve never killed or defiled anyone.”

“Never defiled?” Ranveig sat up to look at him, thankfully ending her maddening feast on his neck and idly using her hand to withdraw his fingers from their ministrations within. "You claim never to have been with a woman?”

At that, he did scoff. “Never an unwilling woman, or man.” He added. His fingers felt sticky amidst the temperature change.

Wonder flashed in her eyes, before curiosity quickly replaced it. “Your appetites are surprising, but not unwelcome.”

And now she was massaging him with her hand. Until a moment later, it stopped as she lowered herself, replacing her hand with her warmth.

Rufus had to both bite his lip and imagine his first captors relieving themselves on his face again to keep from exploding inside the woman above him. Despite his efforts, his hips bucked dangerously.

“Not. Yet." She breathed in a manner that was half taunt, half threat. "Be a good slave and compose yourself, or you get the dagger.”

Christ, now she was grinding on him, entwining her fingers with his own, blond hair tickling his cheek as she pinned him down and buried her face at his throat. So apparently, he had to hold back until she'd had her fun. Steeling his resolve, he resisted the urge to move along with her. Not that it was doing much good to prolong the inevitable.

He couldn’t think straight, even if he had wanted to reply. Desperately, he stared at the uneven stitching in the tent ceiling above them. All fear had now fallen – or perhaps contributed to – the riveting sensation of this brutal Viking all around him. It took all he had not to release a string of Latin curses. The way she was moaning and writhing above him certainly didn't help matters, not to mention the fact that he was powerless to move or distract himself from the maddening feel of being inside her. In fact, moments later saw her spasming around him.

And that was all it took.

As luck would have it, she guessed correctly the meaning behind his frantic hand squeeze and lifted off of him just in time to clasp the evidence of his climax in her hand.

Once the aftershock had passed, Rufus dared another look at her face. Crystalline eyes shining in the candlelight, she inserted her fingers into his mouth. He decided against biting.

Rufus was equal parts newly aroused and exasperated that yet another Viking was putting their fingers in his mouth. At least this situation held some appeal. Maybe more than some. 

Once he had tasted himself on her skin, she proceeded to withdraw her hand and sample her own fingers. He succeeded in pulling himself to a sitting position, eyes never leaving her face as she removed her fingers from her mouth with a quiet pop. 

"Don't look so shocked," for the first time, she actually smiled, "I just wanted a taste of Rome."

With that, Ranveig silently turned and dressed. Then she blew out the candles by the entrance, gathered her weapons and left the tent without a backward glance. 

By the time the sun rose, the Roman slave Rufus remained the only survivor amidst a bed of corpses.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay for the first story in the Norsemen/Vikingane fandom! I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts and read any ideas other fans have for fics on this gem of a series!


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